In the end, fear won out over anger. I only stood there a minute before turning and walking away. I was still just a cub.

When I got to the corner, hands grabbed me. No, claws. Hands turning into claws. My vision flashed with stars as I was slammed against the wall, my head cracking on the brick. Someone held my shoulders in a viselike grip, pinning me to the wall, and the claws of his thumbs dug into my throat.

It was T.J.

His fingers were shortening, his hands thickening as his wolf came to the fore. He was strangling me. His face was inches from mine, his eyes flecked with gold. His teeth were bared, filtering a growl so low it rumbled through his limbs.

I stared wide-eyed, gasping for breath. Wasn't a whole lot else I could do.

He said, jaw taut, "You disobeyed. Every instinct I have is telling me to beat the fucking shit out of you. Why don't I?"

I swallowed. He could rip me apart, though he hadn't yet broken skin. I could fight him. I knew I could—Wolf was writhing, screaming for a chance to escape or fight I couldn't beat him in a fight. But that almost didn't matter. I wasn't whining. I wasn't going to just roll over for him.

That scared me. I didn't want to fight T.J. I had to concentrate to keep my own hands away from him. I managed to draw enough breath to speak.

"Because sometimes we have to listen to the human side."

He was shaking. His hands trembled on my shoulders. I didn't move. I held his gaze, saw the creases in his brow and at the corners of his eyes, like he was too angry to keep it in, but he was trying. Please, please. I hoped he saw the pleading in my eyes, that he was still human enough to read the human expression.

Then he let me go. I sagged against the wall. He stared at me, a snarl pulling at his lips. Sweat matted his dark hair to his brow. I tried to say something, but I didn't know what I could say, and my throat was tight.

He turned and ran. He pulled off his shirt and threw it away as he rounded the corner. A sheen of slate-gray fur had sprouted on his back. He was gone.

I sat hard and pressed my face to my knees. Fuck fuck fuck. How had I gotten myself into this?

So. I didn't talk to the vampires, and I didn't quit the show.

"… all I'm saying is that if this is a cry for attention, you should maybe talk to someone, a therapist or something, about your need to act out your aggressions…"

I leaned into the mike. "Hey, who's the pop-psychologist hack here? Frankly, I host a popular radio show. You think I want more attention? Next caller, please."

My stomach had been turning cartwheels all evening. Before the broadcast, I was scared to death. Not of Carl or T.J., though I hadn't seen either of them all week. Full moon was coming up. I didn't know what I was going to do. Go to the pack and get my ass kicked. Or spend it by myself.

No, it was because I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen during the show. I got Ozzie to postpone the guest who was previously scheduled. I wanted the full two hours to deal with cleanup. I was going to open the line to calls, anything and everything. I was going to have to explain myself—over and over again.

It wasn't so bad. It never is, I suppose. Anticipation is always the worst. Half the calls so far had been supportive, the rallying cries of devoted fans: "We're behind you all the way." I spent a lot of airtime saying thanks. Some disbelief, some threats, and some of the usual advice calls. Lots of questions.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

Three different callers had asked that one. "No. I'm strictly a venison kind of girl."

"How did you become a werewolf?"

"I was attacked. Beyond that, I prefer not to talk about it."

"So it was, like, traumatic?"

"Yeah, it was."

One girl came on the line crying. "I don't understand how you do it. How can you talk about this stuff and sound so calm? There are days I just want to rip my own skin off!"

I made my voice as soothing as I could. "Take it easy there, Claire. I know how you feel. I have those days, too. I count to ten a lot. And I think talking about it helps. I'm not as scared when I talk about it. Tell me something: What do you hate most about being a werewolf?"

Her breathing had slowed; her voice was more steady. "Not remembering. Sometimes when I wake up, I don't remember what I did. I'm scared that I've done something horrible."

"Why is that?"

"I remember how I feel. I remember how the blood tastes. And—and I remember that I like it. When I'm human, it makes me want to throw up."

I didn't have to mince words anymore. I could answer her from experience now, which I couldn't have done before last week. She probably wouldn't have called me before last week.

"I think when we Change, a lot of human is still there. If we want to be a part of civilization, it stays with us. It keeps us from doing some of the things we're capable of. I guess that's part of the reason I'm here, doing the show and trying to lead a relatively normal life. I'm trying to civilize the Wolf part of me."

"Is it working?"

Good question. "So far so good."

"Thanks, Kitty."

"One day at a time, Claire. Next caller, hello."

"I knew it. I knew you were one." I recognized the voice—a repeat caller. I glanced at the monitor, and sure enough.

"How are you, James?"

"I'm still alone." The declaration was simple and stark.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but how did you know?"

"I don't know," he said, and I could picture him shrugging. "You know what you're talking about. It's the only way you could know." Eager as a puppy, he continued. "So what's it like for you? Do you have a pack?"

Gosh, did I? I wasn't sure anymore. I'd been beaten up by T.J., I'd disobeyed Carl—when I showed up for the next full moon, I wasn't sure they'd have me. I took a chance. "Yes, I do."

"What's it like? What're they like?"

Occasionally, a werewolf attacked someone and there wasn't a pack to take care of the victim, to show him what had happened, to teach him how to live with it. James must have been one of those. I couldn't imagine that. T.J. held me my first full moon, the first time I shifted. It made it easier, at least a little.

I tried to be honest. Or honest for that particular moment in time. "Well. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

So much for a sense of humor. "I value my pack a whole lot. It's been there for me when I needed it. But it can be frustrating. There isn't a whole lot of room for argument." I wondered if Carl or T.J. were listening.

"But you think werewolves need to be in a pack."

"I think packs serve a good purpose. They keep werewolves under some sort of control, so they don't go hunting sheep. Or small children—that was a joke, by the way."

"You don't think a werewolf can make it on his own, then?"

"I didn't say that. It's just that in my experience, it would be hard."

"Oh."

"You said you're alone, James. How do you handle it?"

"I—I don't." He hung up, the line clicking off. Great. I felt queasy about that one.

"Right. Thanks for calling, James."

Matt was waving through the window, pointing at the door to the booth. Rick was standing there. I hadn't noticed him come in. He was lounging against the doorjamb like he'd been there for hours. He waved his hand in a blasé greeting.

I turned back to the mike. "Okay, we're going to break for station ID. More calls when we get back. This is The Midnight Hour."

Matt made the cutting motion that signaled we were off the air. This gave the local stations a few minutes for commercials and promotions. I pulled off my headphones and went to the door.

"Hey, Rick." I tried to sound casual. Either he was going to deliver a scathing message from Arturo or he wanted to know what I'd found out about the Church of the Pure Faith. I still hadn't learned much.